


Neon

by Fenix21



Series: The Long Good Bye [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amulet Fic, Angst, Emotional Hurt/No Comfort, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Gen, Grief, Suicidal Thoughts, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7503411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenix21/pseuds/Fenix21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean couldn't keep his promise to Sam right away</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neon

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by John Paul White's 'Neon' from his album 'The Long Good-Bye'
> 
> Song can be heard [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OxybswQ4MQM)

Dean slouched on the bed, bottle loose in his fingers, ugly, garish neon from the motel sign out front painting harsh, cold swaths across the floor at his feet. There was another bottle, empty, on the nightstand, and two more full ones in his duffle on the floor. 

He'd left Bobby standing in the salvage yard, teary eyed and worried, two days ago with a promise that he was headed to Indiana like Sam had asked of him. He made it as far as the Iowa-Illinois border and pulled off the first exit that said it had a motel, gas, and food. The only thing he really cared about was the motel, to hole up in and suffer alone, and the only use he had for the gas station was that it sold liquor. He loaded up on three bottles of cheap whiskey and one of tequila, stashed them in his duffle and checked into the two star motel across the road, paying in cash and telling the desk clerk he didn't want to be disturbed under any circumstances. 

There was a gun at the bottom of his duffle, too. He hadn't bothered bringing in the salt, or setting any wards. He really didn't give a shit what tried to get at him now. Let it come. He could die fighting at least. His phone was beside him on the bed. It had been buzzing for attention every few hours over the last couple of days. He ignored it. Let them all go to voice mail. He didn't really know why he hadn't just turned it off. 

Well, that was a lie actually. He knew precisely why he didn't turn it off. Despite Cas' definitive words on the road away from that final battleground, Dean couldn't douse that last ember of hope. The one that lived back in the tiny, little boy part of himself with his mother's scent and her soft words of, 'angels are watching over you.' That part of him that couldn't help but believe in miracles and cling to the possibility of one, even now, no matter how slim. 

The phone buzzed again. Dean's stomach clenched, and he fisted the neck of the bottle in this hand in an effort to resist looking at the screen, telling himself it was pointless. The number would not be Sam's. His brother would not be calling, lost and confused, but alive, asking for Dean to come get him. His eyes flicked downward. 

It was Bobby's number. Again. 

The light indicating he had yet another voicemail blinked incessantly. He wanted it to stop. He thought about just throwing the damn thing against the wall, picked it up in preparation to do just that, but—

What if…? While he had been driving along and ignoring the buzzing? Or when he had stopped and gone into the gas station?

He took a long swig from the bottle, flipped the phone open and shakily dialed his PIN. 

_Dean. It's Bobby. I...I just wanted you to know...to know how sorry I am about all this and if you need... Well, if you need to talk. You know my number._

Beep. 'For the next message, please press—'

He pressed the button for the next message. 

_Dean. Bobby. Look, son, I know you just left, and I ain't one to tell you what's best, but you shouldn't be alone right now. You just...call me when you get where you're goin', all right? Right. I'll talk to you. Soon._

Beep. 'For the—'

Dean swigged another mouthful of whiskey and set the empty bottle beside its mate on the nightstand, reached into his bag and unscrewed the cap on another before he pressed the button for the next message. 

_Dean, it's, uh, Lisa. I just... I've, uh, been watching the news and things...things look like maybe... Well, you said things were going to get really bad, right? But it looks like things are actually calming down, and I just wondered...I mean I wanted to be sure you were...all right. So. Call me? Please?'_

Bee—

_Dean. Bobby again—_

Bobby left three more messages and Dean skipped through them. He took another drink, was about to close the phone—

_Dean_.

Dean nearly choked on his mouthful of whiskey. He swallowed and coughed, jammed the phone to his ear. 'Sammy?'

_Dean, I... Jesus, this is so high school, but. Well, I know you're probably a mess right now._

Sam gave a dry bark of laughter, and Dean's eyes stung, his sinuses burning.

_No probably about it. I KNOW you're a mess, and you're alone right now, aren't you? Didn't go find Lisa like I told you to, did you?_

'Sammy, I...' Dean's eyes were running now, so was his nose, and his chest was compressed tight around a horrible sob that he knew if he let loose, would open a flood gate he wasn't ready for yet.  'I was gonna, Sammy,' he rasped out. 'But I...I'm not worth anything like this, you know...'

_And you're sitting there having a pity party, I bet, too._  

Sam continued, voice smiling but sad. 

_Thinking there's no way anybody would want anyone as broken as you are. But I'm telling you, Dean. You're full of shit._

Dean shook his head, clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the awful, gut wrenching sound that came out of him. 

_Now, you listen to me, big brother. You promised me. You PROMISED. You deserve a good life. You always did. You took care of me the very best you knew how, but you've got to remember that this was MY choice. You said so yourself._

'I didn't mean it, Sammy,' Dean choked out. 'I shoulda—I shoulda told you, no. HELL no! But I thought I was doing the right thing...'

Dean folded over, phone smashed to his ear. The bottle slipped from his grasp and rolled across the floor, glugging out its contents on the already stained carpet. 

_My choice, Dean. You remember that. And remember that I—_

Beep.

The message cut off. Dean panicked, clutched the phone, punched his thumb against the key for the next message. 'Please...please. Please!' he begged. 

_Damn_...

Sam swore softly, then laughed. Just a soft chuff of breath like he so often did when something was sadly amusing. 

_Well, you always did say I talked too much, so... Anyway. I'll make this short, I guess._  

He sighed heavily across the line and Dean could see his head going down, hair falling over his eyes, fingers probably fidgeting in his lap. It made his chest hurt twice as bad. 

_I love you, Dean. I know you know, and I know you're probably sitting there rolling your damn eyes at me—_

''M not, Sammy. 'M really not,' Dean whispered raggedly. 

_—but I wanted to say it. One last time._  

Sam cleared his throat and his voice went soft and husky on the next words. 

_I need you to do something for me, Dean. Well, two things really, but the first... Uh... In your jacket, Dean, in the lining on the left side. Open it. There's something in there for you._  

He cleared his throat again, and Dean could almost see him swiping brusquely at his eyes. 

_As for the second? Lisa. Like I said. Go to her. Have a good life. Go get the apple pie, Dean, and eat it to._  

He laughed a little harshly at his own bad play on words. 

_I'm serious, bro. Get off your sorry ass and go live. For me_. 

He paused so long Dean was afraid it was the end of the message, but then,

_I love you, Dean. Always._

The line went dead. 

There were no more messages. 

Dean folded over on himself, arms wrapping around his ribs, fingers clutching, digging into his own skin hard enough to leave bruises. He slipped into the floor, graceless, with a hard thud. An ugly, razor edged sob forced its way up his throat, followed by another, and another, until he was gasping and choking and could barely breathe, and when the dark came up at the edges of his vision and swamped him, he could only welcome it and hope there was no light on the other side. 

***

A brilliant cut of white early morning light sliced across Dean's face, waking him up to a splitting headache, probably more from the round of body shattering sobs than all the whiskey he'd downed. His eyes were puffy, swollen, and he could barely get them open, regretted it when he did as the light sliced against his eyeballs and caused his muzzy brain to go active on so many levels all at once that he  actually gave a little cry of pain and curled in on himself.

He lay in a fetal ball on the floor, back curled against the intensifying light from the window, for longer than he could, or cared to, keep track of; but his stomach finally caught up with the idea that he was awake and reminded him with a dangerous surge of nausea that he basically tried to kill himself with alcohol the night before. He levered himself to his feet only to land on his knees moments later in the bathroom, heaving over the toilet bowl so hard he ended up shaking almost to the point he couldn't hold himself up. He'd rarely done a bender like this one, and the handful of times he had, Sam had been there to hold his head, crooning and cursing at him softly by turns until he'd emptied himself out and his little brother had pried him off the floor and tucked him up in bed with water and ibuprofen. All except one time. Right after he'd left for Stanford. But that hadn't been as bad as this. Sam was gone then, but alive, even if he was out of Dean's immediate reach.

He gripped the bowl, gagging and spitting, until he finally felt like he might be able to stand; but it was too much effort in the end, and he wound up crumpled against the tub, face pressed to the cold acrylic for a very long time.

When he did manage to get his feet under him, he stripped off his shirt and tee, rinsed out his mouth and splashed water on his face. He didn't dare a glance in the mirror. The broken man staring back would only drive him to tears again, and he wasn't sure he had the energy to survive another round of that. He was starting to feel numb, inside and out, and he wanted to keep that; wanted to stay in this non-space for a little while longer. He turned to head out of the bathroom, thoughts of opening the last bottle of whiskey flitting through his mind, when his foot caught on his phone where it had fallen from his fingers when he passed out last night.

Sam's voice on the line came crashing back.

_I love you, Dean. Always._

Dean stumbled, slumped on the bed, grasped his head in his hands as if he could block out the sound of Sam's voice in his brain just by covering up his ears. He tried not to look back at the phone and failed. A memory sparked.

_Need you to do something for me, Dean…_

His eyes flicked to the opposite bed (he'd gotten a double room out of habit) and his leather jacket lying in a heap where he'd dropped it. His dad's jacket. The last thing he had of the man. One of the few things he'd cared about enough to put in the box to go to Bobby when he'd been ready to turn himself over to Michael.

_…in the lining on the left side. Open it…_

He reached across the space, fumbled for the jacket, and pulled it toward him, cradling it across his lap for a few moments. Then he turned it half inside out, searching the left side interior lining. He found a row of stitching up against the leather that was not neat and had obviously been done by hand. He couldn't remember his father ever repairing the coat in any way, and he certainly never had. He dug for his boot knife, opened it, and carefully slit the uneven stitches.

Sam was clever. Always had been. He'd stitched the leather string up against the seam to hide it and tucked the amulet itself into the front placket behind one of the buttons so Dean wouldn't detect the extra bulk.

He stared at it for a long time until, with shaking hands, he used the knife to slit the few stitches holding it in place and tugged it out of the lining of the coat, held it in the palm of his hand. Where Sam had sewn it in place, the amulet would have rested almost over his heart, almost in the same place it used to hang, through all the years he'd worn it, and it was warm in his hand like it always had been.

He felt the tears coming again. These weren't quite so brutal, though. He'd been emptied of his fury and his rage and there was only quiet grief left behind, and that's what these tears were. He sat on the bed and cried, holding the amulet, tears dripping and splashing on the leather, leaving marks that might never go away, and that was all right. One more thing to remember Sam by. 

_Go get that apple pie life, Dean, and eat it, too…_

He finally curled his fingers around the amulet, pressed it against his heart.

'I love you, too, Sammy,' he whispered. 'Always.'

 

Dean didn't open the last bottle of whiskey. He left it on the dresser beside the television when he checked out, showered and shaved and dressed in clean clothes, looking as presentable as he had in a while. 

After a long time of deliberating, he'd tucked the amulet back into the jacket lining and then bundled it up tightly. He carried it under his arm now, duffle slung over his other shoulder, and popped the Impala's trunk. He threw his duffle in and then paused for a moment, taking a deep steadying breath before he reached for another duffle, pushed to the back beside a flat leather messenger bag that still held Sam's laptop. He unzipped Sam's duffle and shoved the contents inside around enough to make a space to hold the jacket and then stuffed it inside. 

He stood there for a minute, hand resting against the familiar leather, memory calling up the scent of gun oil, smoke, fire, grave dirt, all the things Dean had equated with his father; and then he pressed a little harder, barely felt the push of the amulet's horns against the other side of the leather against his palm. Sam had been smart to hide it in the coat. Dean was never going to get rid of it. Even if it was ruined, he would still pack it up and keep it with him. Sam knew that, had counted on it, and it paid off. 

He flexed his fingers against the leather once, then zipped the duffle up, and pushed it back into he far corner of the trunk in its place beside the laptop bag. He closed the trunk and locked it, went around to the driver's side and slid in, put the key in the ignition and felt that old familiar tug in his gut when the engine roared to life. He couldn't help the reflexive glance he slid to the shotgun seat.

He took another deep breath and turned his gaze back front. Cicero, Indiana was about six hours away. He could make it by dinner time. He gripped the wheel, fought for another breath against the swell of grief in his chest, blinked back the tears until he could see the road ahead of him. 

'Gonna go get that apple pie, Sammy. Just like you wanted,' he whispered into the stillness of the car. 

_I love you, Dean. Always._

Dean reached for the tape deck, shoved in the cassette, and cranked the volume as Zeppelin filled the car. He slipped his baby in gear and headed out for the highway.


End file.
